


Spare Worth

by writteninhaste



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kili thinks he's worthless, Kink Meme, Thorin's A+ Parenting, and no-one tells him otherwise, hints of Kili/Tauriel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 15:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3698069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writteninhaste/pseuds/writteninhaste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kili was only a few years beyond clinging to his mother’s apron strings when Balin sat both he and Fili down, and told them the story of the battle at Azanulbizar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spare Worth

**Author's Note:**

> So many thanks to ywurrie for being fabulous beta for this fic. She spent the Easter weekend helping me hash out ideas and telling me when I was being stupid. This would not have been written without her.
> 
>  
> 
> written for this prompt on the Hobbit Kink Meme: Kili has grown up thinking he's the spare and Fili the heir. He's never felt he measure's up and he think's Thorin doesn't love him as much as Fili. Something happens on the road to make Kili's feelings come to light. Cue Fili and Thorin comforting Kili and making sure he feels loved.
> 
> Bonus points if the others notice somethings off with Kili and get involved.

Kili was only a few years beyond clinging to his mother’s apron strings when Balin sat both he and Fili down, and told them the story of the battle at Azanulbizar. Kili was young enough to still sleep with his toys, to share his bed with his brother – not just for warmth, but because the night-time still held monsters and shadows – when he was told to sit still and listen to the tale of Frerin, son of Thrain, who had given his life to defend his brother, his father and his king. The second-born, the brother of Thorin Oakenshield, who had done his duty the best he knew how. 

Fili had been solemn, grave in the face of his uncle’s sacrifice. Balin had spoken nothing but praise of the young, fallen prince: how deeply he had been loved by their people; how grateful they all were for his sacrifice. Kili had felt his heart begin to flame. He saw now, the path life had laid out for him. He would protect Fili, with his dying breath if necessary. He would be like Frerin. Fili would live to become King after their uncle had passed. Kili would make sure of that.

That night, curled back-to-back with his brother, in a bed which was rapidly becoming too small to hold them both, Kili dreamed of the days that were to come. He would train harder than any warrior before; no-one would doubt his ability to defend his brother. Kili was going to be like Frerin. He was going to ensure the future of the kings of Erebor.

Kili knew (the way he knew he was born to the bow, that Fili would be a great king, that there was no dwarf in Middle Earth capable of fooling his mother) that it was not only birth-order which had prompted Thorin to name Fili as his heir. After all, Thorin was still young, in relative terms; he could wed, produce heirs of his own – there was no real reason for him to name a nephew as his successor. But of the two of them, Fili had always been the better dwarf: a strong fighter, a gifted craftsman, and a skilled negotiator. Fili was the son Thorin would have chosen – had their Maker been the sort to allow parents to choose those sorts of things; in Fili, Thorin saw the hope of Erebor. In Kili? Well, who knew what his Uncle saw?

Kili had always known that he was less – worthy was perhaps the best word for it – than he might wish to be, in his Uncle’s eyes. Oh, he did not doubt that Thorin loved him (any fool with eyes could see how dearly Thorin loved his kin) but Kili knew that he had never been _respected_. Most of those connected with Durin’s line treated Kili with the tolerant affection reserved for pups who had yet to grow into their feet. But sooner or later that affection had begun to wane. Dogs were expected to grow to be of use on the farm or the hunt; a pup that grew to adulthood without finding its feet was as like to be shot for being a burden as anything else. Thorin had made no secret of the fact that, in his eyes at least, Kili was fast becoming such a burden. Kili had listened at keyholes in Ered Luin; had heard how fiercely his uncle had argued against his going. _Too young, too foolish, too weak_ his uncle’s protests seemed to say. Kili knew it had been his mother who had insisted – had kept on insisting until Thorin’s resistance had given way – that Kili go with Fili to Erebor.

Her last words to him had been an instruction to look after his brother – even as she pressed a rune-stone into his hand and made him promise to return. It might not be the same as his uncle’s benediction, but Kili was warmed by the thought that his mother had faith that he could do his duty. 

Balin’s lessons had taught him to hope (whenever he had spared some time for contemplation) that with his uncle as King and his brother as Crown Prince, Fili’s safety might be assured. Kili’s purpose would be, in a sense, fulfilled and he would be without a clear duty for the first time in his life. The prospect was more than a little daunting. Before the Company set out for Erebor Kili had thought he might be made Keeper of Coin or Master of the Halls. He had a fair head for figures, and languages came more easily to him than they did his brother; but Gloin was a skilled banker, it would make sense for the Treasury to become his domain, and as Steward, Balin would be more use as Master of the Halls – at least until Kili’s mother arrived. 

In truth, since having met those who were to accompany them to the Lonely Mountain, Kili had no notion as to what his role might be when the kingdom was reclaimed. Control of the armies would naturally fall to Dwalin – and at any rate, Kili lacked the experience to command soldiers in combat. The Watch was beyond him too, for Thorin had never let either of his nephews join, citing their lack of years and the necessity of their being free to travel as guards for the caravans, when needed. The mines? But he was no miner. A craft perhaps? But he had never joined a Guild and was old, now, to be beginning an apprenticeship. He knew he was considered a fair jeweller, by the standards of Men, and a more than fair swordsmith. But his skill in that arena paled in comparison to his Uncle, and Fili’s work with gems had always run more to the tastes of their people, than his. Too Elvish, too Manish, folk would say. It meant Kili’s pieces sold well on the road, where men (and on rare occasion elves) were usually their only customers, but it boded ill for a livelihood within the Lonely Mountain. 

Still, he was getting ahead of himself. Erebor had yet to be reclaimed, and it was more than likely that Kili would be dead before the question of his future career ever required answering. In his pocket, his thumb traced over the smooth edges of the rune stone his mother had given him.

“Oi!” Kili jerked out of his reverie as a booted foot made contact with his shin, “what’s got you thinking so deeply?”

Kili looked up to find Fili peering at him from the back of his pony. The rest of the Company was strung out along the trail ahead of them, the small form of the Halfling jouncing unsteadily between two of the Brothers Ri. “I was thinking of Erebor.” Kili said, shaking himself as though he could cast off darker thoughts.

“Yeah? Well keep your mind on the present,” Fili told him, “we’re meant to be the rear-guard, remember?”

Kili felt a flush creeping up his neck, made worse when Thorin turned in the saddle at the head of the column to look back. Though it was impossible for their uncle to have heard their conversation, over the space between them, Kili felt sure that Thorin knew every word which had been spoken and that Kili had once again proven himself wanting.

With a nod to his brother, Kili turned to his attention to the wilds on either side of them, missing the look of concern on Fili’s face.

The nights were long on the road, and the Burglar’s curiosity had been peeked by Balin’s tale of Azanulbizar. As they moved East, each of the Company took turns to tell their own stories. Tonight it was Bofur’s turn: a dramatic rendering of how Bifur had received his ‘cerebral ornamentation’, as Dori put it.

Though Fili had offered recounts of skirmishes on the road – caravans besieged by wolves or bandits – Kili had kept his peace around the campfire. His uncle’s rebuke, from that night on the hill top, still range sharply in his ears. _You know nothing of the world_. It was not the first time he had heard such a sentiment since they had set forth from Ered Luin: many of the Company shared Thorin’s belief. Kili thought perhaps he knew more than others had accounted for – though ducking lessons with Balin and avoiding his mother’s rebukes would have done nothing to convince anyone of that. Gloin had blistered his ear the morning he had failed to tighten the tack of Fili’s mount properly, so that the saddle slipped against the pony’s back when his brother tried to mount. Kili had been distracted, listening to the rustles in the undergrowth and forgotten to check the final strap before saddling his own pony. It had been luck alone that had kept Fili from being badly hurt. Dwalin had taken him to one side before the party had moved out, reminding him that if he could not focus, he had no business among them. Kili had half-hoped his uncle might come to his defence, acknowledging it had been an honest mistake born from a greater concern. But there had been no help to be had from that quarter. Fili had been aloof and irritated with him for the rest of the morning, and the ride had been sore and silent as Kili found himself without amiable companions.

He wondered, a little more than idly, if he would ever have the chance to truly prove himself as being as worthy of the line of Durin. Though that arms masters at Ered Luin had been satisfied to consider him Blooded, after an encounter with a band of thieves on the road past Dunland, the reality was that Kili had never known true battle. He had never faced a threat that truly tested him – hungry wolves and starving men with makeshift weaponry were no test of dwarvish skill. Kili wanted to prove himself against an enemy: one strong enough that it would be an effort to defeat him. One, against whom, Kili might know himself to be a capable protector.

Not that he wished for war, not really. He had grown up in the shadow of his mother’s devastation – the heartbreak she had suffered as a result of death and war. He could not, in all honour, wish more pain upon her. But he was young, and as with so many who are young, his blood burned with the need to prove himself.

He had always longed for Thorin’s respect and approval but, as Fili was quick to remind him when he was cross, he had done little enough to earn it. As a scholar under Balin, he knew himself to be merely _passable_ ; as a warrior under Dwalin, barely more so. His reasoning was sound, in the long run, but in the short term it did little to endear him to an uncle who was focused on the glory of a kingdom. Thorin wanted more from Kili that a strong sword-arm and a mithril spine. Thorin wanted a nephew with a quick tongue and a quicker mind. And Kili had, so far, failed to provide.

But Kili was not foolish. He knew the throne would never be his: that his sons or daughters would never be asked to lead their people, let alone rule under the mountain. Diplomacy was meaningless. Anatomy, however, was not. From the midwives, the herbalists, those few healers Ered Luin could support, Kili knew just how much damage a body could take before it failed. More importantly, he knew how much damage _his_ body could take.

One thing his arms masters had praised him for, at least, was sheer tenacity. Dís had torn strips from him the day he taken a training hammer to the shoulder blade and refused to cede the match; his opponent had ended in the dirt with Kili’s blade to his throat; Kili himself had barely been able to raise his arm for a week. Dís had berated him for his foolishness – taking great pains to point out that a warrior who maimed himself in training was of no use in the field. But what Kili remembered most of that evening, as his mother had let her fury blister his skin as she bandaged him, was his Uncle’s small, approving nod. Thorin had been proud that day and Kili treasured that memory more than silver or gold.

Nori called the change of watch, and Kili levered himself upright. Fili didn’t follow. Dwalin had requested second watch tonight and Fili had agreed to swap to the third. Bombor’s snores echoed against the rocks as Kili took his seat at the edge of the firelight. Dwalin was a warm, solid, weight beside him, and Kili handed his blade over for inspection without being asked. Dwalin had taken to spot checking his weapons maintenance whenever they had left Ered Luin. Kili had lost track of the number of nights, huddled within the warm circle of bodies that accompany any caravan, when Dwalin would stomp across to him and ask to see his blade. The bow Dwalin left alone, not deigning to acknowledge Kili’s chosen weapon.

Dwalin grunted his approval, examination ended, and thrust the sword back into Kili’s hands. He balanced the blade between his knees, rather than reattach it to his belt, one hand curling around the grip, the other covering the pommel. Dwalin surprised him then, by gesturing for Kili to hand over his bow for inspection too. Kili did so, with some hesitation, sliding his quiver over his head and passing that along as well. Dwalin ran his fingers across the arrow heads, testing their strength, snorting as the supple wood of the shafts creaked beneath his fingers.

“Were we not on the road, lad, I’d snap each of these and leave them lying in the dust.” Kili jerked, startled. He was more than well aware that archery, whilst not unknown amongst the dwarves (for how else would they hunt or form a vanguard) was not considered as being a weapon of any sort of honour. Honour came from seeing the whites of your enemy’s eyes when you killed him. Honour was not to be found a hundred yards away, sheltered by the shield wall, with no way of knowing, in the heat of battle, whether your arrow had even found its mark. Dwarves were practical creatures – they knew the value of long range weapons and they used them, as needed – but a bow should not be the weapon of a prince. And no one had ever let Kili forget it. Still, Dwalin had never told Kili to put his bow aside, and Kili had always taken this as a sort of tacit approval. For Dwalin now, after so many years, to threaten to destroy the craft of Kili’s own hands left the younger dwarf reeling. 

“I saw you in that rush against the trolls, lad. You’ve been relying on that elvish nonsense for too long. You hesitated, when you drew your sword – took too many wild swings afterwards, as well.”

Kili wanted to protest that he had hesitated because he hadn’t wanted to risk harm to the Burglar. His ‘wild swings’ as Dwalin had put them, had been last minute changes of direction, trying to account for Fili’s movements, as his brother threw himself across the clearing with little thought to what other’s might be doing in the fight.

“We re-start your sword training in the morning. I was too lax with you, back in the Blue Mountains. You want to survive this journey, you’ll focus on the weapon in front of you. Good dwarvish skill and good dwarvish tradition. That’s what’ll keep you alive until we reach the Mountain. That’s what’ll keep those around you alive, as well.”

Kili thought perhaps he ought to nod, offer some sort of acknowledgement, but his throat was thick with all the things he wished he could say, so instead he said nothing at all. Dwalin sighed and pushed to his feet, muttering about going to walk the perimeter. Kili let him go and kept staring straight ahead.

As he kept watch, Bifur’s voice drifted up into the night. It was an old song, composed long before Erebor fell. It told of a craftsman who loved a dwarrowdam, but nothing he ever wrought was good enough to please her, for he was a dwarf of only moderate skill and she the daughter of a Guild Master. The song was long and sad and told of how the craftsman worked himself to death trying to create a sculpture worthy of her beauty. It was a cautionary tale against pride and a belief in the superiority of one’s own skill. 

As a boy, Kili had taken the lesson to heart: you are the worst judge of your own character; never believe yourself talented until someone tells you so.

“Don’t you think you were a little hard on him?”

Dwalin turned at the sound of Thorin’s voice. His king was propped against a rock, pipe held loosely in one hand and Orcrist resting in his lap.

“There’s too many dark beasties who can sneak up on us in the night.” Dwalin shook his head. “You know as well as I that the bow’s a long range weapon – half the time he’d never even have the time to draw. Unless you want to bury your nephew under grass and sky one of these days, you’ll let me beat the sword into his head while I’ve the opportunity.”

“He’s never been a natural swordsman.” Thorin said, though his tone held a hint of resignation. “He only ever flourished with the bow.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know, laddie. The day he came to the ring, that damned elvish fiddlestick in hand, I damn near put him over my knee and sent him back to Dís in disgrace.” Thorin kept his peace, knowing how this story ended and waiting for Dwalin to tell him anyway. “But then he put an arrow to the string. And by Mahal, I’ve never seen an aim so true.”

“Let’s not forget the draw-weight.” Thorin drawled. “Fili struggled to draw the string back to his nose, let alone his ear.”

“Aye,” Dwalin rumbled, “the lad had clearly been practicing – though how he’d managed without us knowing, I’ll never guess.” He was clearly as fond of the memory as Thorin was. He had been proud of his nephew that day. He’d come home to find Kili with the bow-limb cradled in his lap, tracing his fingers up and down the curve of the wood. It was obvious he’d made the thing himself – tips rough and brace not fully finished – but of fine quality and good wood at any rate. Kili had been hesitant when he’d caught sight of him – no doubt expecting some rebuke or other. But Thorin had simply told him that a dwarvish weapon required decoration, and sent him off to find the knife to do it.

Kili’s hands were shaking as he threw himself down the gap between the stones. He stumbled upright as his boots hit the packed earth, one hand still clutching his bow. He thought for a moment that he felt Thorin grip his shoulder tightly, but then Fili was bundling him backwards as an orc, elvish arrow protruding from its back, tumbled to the ground before them. Thorin’s disgust was palpable; Kili could almost taste it. There was poison in his uncle’s gaze and Kili was sure only part of it was for the orcs and the elves. He remembered Thorin calling for him to come away, to leave the fight. Kili had been prepared to hold the ground against their attackers – to stand firm so that his uncle and his brother might get to safety. But Thorin had stood there and called for his retreat. He hadn’t believed that Kili had the strength or skill to face their enemy. He hadn’t trusted Kili could keep them from the slaughter, and everyone had heard him say it.

Shame burned along Kili’s cheeks. Dwalin squeezed past him with a huff, Balin trailing behind, and it took Fili prodding him in the back to move Kili forward. His bow he kept in his hand, unwilling to stop to resettle it across his shoulders when there were orcs somewhere behind them. Dori was bringing up the rear, chivvying Ori along ahead of him, fussing all the while. Kili tried to move down the line, to take Dori’s place as rear-guard, but Thorin kept casting glances back, behind him, counting the Company. His frown had deepened every time he caught Kili trying to fall behind, until Kili gave up on the attempt. He could only hope that whatever reprimand was coming would be delivered to him in private.

Thorin’s mood was not improved by Elrond’s welcome, courteous though it had been (for the most part). Kili was grateful when they were shown to their rooms and he found Fili would be the only one rooming with him. He left his brother to check on their uncle’s temper and slipped into the bathing chamber. Though Rivendell was no Mountain, there was no shortage of hot water. The tub was filled to the brim with steaming water and their escort had assured them that should they wish to bathe separately it was a simple enough matter to empty and refill the baths. Kili took advantage of this fact, shedding his gear with unseemly haste (bow and quiver resting against the side of the tub) and settling himself into the water before Fili could get there first. By all rights, he should perhaps have let his brother have the first bath, but his shoulder ached from his tumble down the slope , and he had been waiting for the chance to get truly clean, for weeks. 

Taking a deep breath, Kili sunk beneath the surface of the water. In Ered Luin their tub had been too small for him to submerge his shoulders and head and keep his knees below the waterline as well. Here, in Rivendell, in a bath made for elves, he had no such difficulty. Kili had no doubt that he could likely swim in the tub, if he so chose. He stayed below the surface for as long as he could, letting the hot water soak into his skin and hoping that the dirt in his hair might start of lift free of its own accord. Only when his lungs began to burn from effort, did Kili push himself upright again, blinking water from his lids and scraping wet hair from off his face. He jerked back with a yell, water sloshing over the tub’s sides, when he saw his uncle sitting calmly on a stool beside him. Thorin simply raised an eyebrow as water lapped against the soles of his boots.

Kili flushed and reached for the soap which had been left for him, scrubbing away at his face and neck in the hopes of hiding his embarrassment. 

“You took much responsibility upon yourself today,” Thorin said, as Kili began to scour the dirt from his skin. “Novice warriors do not usually presume to cover a company’s retreat.” 

Kili swallowed thickly. “As an archer I had the advantage.” He said. Dwalin had taken to drilling him in an hour of sword practice before dawn, each day. But when Kili had heard the warg cries in the forest, he hadn’t hesitated. For all the scolding he might get later, for all Dwalin might break Kili’s bow across his knee, that skill had saved their lives today. And Kili would not apologise for that.

Thorin made a sound, low in his throat, though whether it was approval or disagreement, Kili could not tell. “Your mother and I were both surprised when you chose the bow as your weapon,” he said at last, when it became clear Kili would give no further evidence in his defence, “We had thought you would favour the sword or the axe, like others of our line.”

Kili steeled himself against the old hurt. That first night, after he had dared present the bow as his weapons, to his tutors, Kili had locked himself in his room and cried. Fili had found him, hours later, asleep and exhausted, a carving knife still held in one fist and a half-decorated bow tangled in the sheets. Kili had been young then, and so hungry for any scrap of approval, so desperate to prove himself a worthy prince and brother. He had harboured silly dreams that Thorin might praise him for his choice, might make a toast to the warrior he was becoming– the way he when Fili had taken up the sword. Instead Thorin had stared at him, silent and unmoving, before telling him that a proper dwarven weapon came complete with ornament. Kili had been dismissed from his uncle’s presence before he’d even had a chance to show off his bow. It had been his first true piece of craftsmanship, a declaration of his intent and skill, and Thorin had never even held it in his hand. Kili had gone quietly to his room and there carved those designs he knew. He had wept bitterly from shame and disappointment and fallen asleep before the work could be completed. When morning came, his uncle had already left the Blue Mountains on an errand and his mother had only tutted and handed him a broom to sweep the wood shavings from his bed.

“The bow suits me.” Kili said, aware he was treading old paths, in older arguments. “Fili is clearly the better swordsman, and Dwalin has said himself that I have no natural skill with the hammer or the axe. I would not shame myself or my family by carrying into battle a weapon I cannot wield. I do well with the bow. I saved lives today.” The moment he had said the words he wanted to take them back, to snatch them from the air and stuff them back down his throat. The first rule any warrior learnt was to never make such a claim – it was for others to decide the nature of your victory. If you saved a dwarf’s life, he would tell you; if you saved the lives of your comrades, your commander would applaud your skill or courage; it was not for the warrior to say what contribution he had made. That type of boasting for was braggarts and cheats.

Thorin said nothing. Kili wanted to die of shame. Distantly, he heard the door to the bedchamber open and close again and the sound of Fili calling his name. 

“We have been invited to dinner in an hour’s time.” Thorin told him, rising from his seat. “Finish your bath and let your brother clean himself. I will not subject myself to more taunts from elves, than necessary.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Thorin swept from the bathing room, just as Fili came in, looking back in confusion as Thorin moved past without a word.

“What was all that about?”

In lieu of an answer, Kili set about scrubbing his hair with soap.

Thorin braced his fists on the balcony, head cocked when he heard Dwalin’s heavy tread behind him.

“Your boy fought well today.”

“Aye, he did.” Thorin paused, smile tugging at his lips as he remembered Kili stood, feet braced, bow levelled at the advancing warg. “Did he remind you of anyone?”

Dawlin chuckled. “You mean Frerin? Aye, ‘twas a strong resemblance. Damn fool never knew when to retreat, either.”

Both men sobered as they remembered just what that foolishness had cost Frerin in the end. “He saved many lives today.” Thorin said at last, fingers twisting his ring idly, round and round.

“Did you tell him so?” Dwalin asked, “Or should I mention it, next time I see him?”

Thorin cast a wry look in his friend’s direction. “He told me so himself.”

The answer startled a laugh from Dwalin and the laugh, in turn, startled not a few of the elves who had stepped out onto the balcony to lay the tables. “A different generation.” Dwalin said, shaking his head in amusement. “I’d never have dared be so bold.”

“No?” Thorin inquired politely, “I seem to remember you telling Balin of your own skill a time or two.”

Dwalin snorted. “Aye, and each time he knocked me to the dirt and told me that I could fight better next time.”

Thorin shook his head at the memory, remembering just such an occasion when Balin, prematurely grey, and with an axe in each fist, had swept a young Dwalin’s legs from beneath him, in full view of more than half the court ladies – including Thorin’s own mother. Dwalin had always had a soft spot for the Lady Rhâga and his trouncing in her presence had left him sulking for days.

Dwalin’s thoughts had obviously strayed in the same direction as Thorin’s. “Most beautiful dwarf under the mountain was your mother.” He said, voice soft enough that only Thorin could hear. “Your sister has some of her look about her, but I see her more strongly in Kili.”

“It’s his eyes,” Thorin said. “Dís will tell you they’re his father’s, but I have always seen our mother in them.”

“Perhaps that was why she fell for Angvari.” Dwalin suggested. “I always wondered why she chose one so far below her in station.”

“She loved him.” Thorin said, harshly. He had not understood his sister’s choice either, at first. But it had been clear that Angvari had been her One, and she had mourned his passing bitterly. 

Dwalin raised his hands in apology, letting the matter lie. Thorin knew there were those who thought Durin’s Line diluted in his nephews – that in some way their paternity made them less worthy of Durin’s throne – but they were mistaken. No doubt, Thror would have forbidden the union had he lived – horrified at the thought of his own daughter being wed to tanner who knew almost no stone craft and had never dwelt in the mountain. But Thorin had not found the strength to be so stone-hearted. Dís had come to him, Angvari’s hand held tight in hers and declared him her One. Angvari had known that there was little hope; Thorin had seen it in his eyes. He knew that if Thorin refused his blessing he would be forced to wander the wilds, rather than live so close to the one he had been denied. Dís would have been forced to remain behind, her duty to her people keeping her at Thorin’s side. 

Still, Thorin might have refused, had it not been for the fear in his sister’s eyes. Barely of age, with grief pressing heavily upon her, she had come to her brother, believing, even as she did so, that the one happiness she had managed to find would be torn away. Thorin had relented and Dís, daughter of Thrain, had been wed to a tanner on a grim and dusty roadside. There had been no music, no feasts, just Thorin to lead the vows and Balin as witness. The wedding gift had been a poor one. With no access to a forge and his coin given to the feeding of his people, Thorin had been forced to gift his sister with nothing but a used battle knife – wiped clean of the gore of war but a tool for killing all the same. It was a disgraceful gift from a brother on his sister’s wedding day, accompanied by nothing more than a promise that one day, Thorin would make things right. But Dís had accepted with a smile and when, in later years, Fili had been born, she had accepted the silver rattle Thorin had made with honest joy. 

Thorin had mourned with Dís when Angvari had passed into Mandos’ Halls. He remembered those long nights after the funeral when Kili would cry and cry and Dís had not the energy to do more than ensure he was clean and fed. Thorin had walked from room to room, describing all the items within them to the crying infant. Kili would settle into the warmth of Thorin’s chest, soft cheek against bare skin and when he was finally asleep, Thorin would take him back to his brother’s room. Fili would inevitably wake, and Thorin would be forced to climb into the bed beside him, back against the wall and Kili cradled in his lap, Fili curled against his hip. Many mornings did Dís find them so arranged, Thorin asleep, upright, a wide-awake Kili blinking at all he surveyed and Fili snuffling quietly as he walked his wooden pony up and down his uncle’s legs.

Finding himself an alcove, tucked into the side of one of the more-used pathways, Kili laid his cloth on the ground before him and set about polishing those few pieces he had brought with him for the journey. In truth, the cloth had seen better days, the velvet worn and thin in places, the once-rich blackness faded to a muted grey. Still, it showed his wares to good advantage. Kili preferred to work with silver, when given the choice, and the filigree rings he had carried from Ered Luin shone against the dark backdrop of the cloth. Plucking a small ruby earring from its resting place, Kili took care to turn it towards the light as he began his cleaning. The cool sunlight streaming through the boughs of Rivendell broke into a fractal of light as they hit the ruby’s surface. It could not help but catch the eye.

It was clear the elves knew what he was about, for a few tittered at him good humouredly before continuing on their way. Fili found him as he was cleaning the clasp of a small copper bracelet, intended for an infant’s wrist.

“Making yourself at home I see.”

Kili glanced up. The frown on Fili’s face was surprising; the suspicious looks he threw at the elves around them, less so.

“It seemed like a good opportunity.”

Fili scoffed, “For what? Playing dress up with the elves? They’ll not buy anything, you know.”

“You never know.”

The truth was they might need to buy the services of a Healer, sometime on this quest. Oin did his best, but his stores of medicine might yet run low. Kili saw no harm in stacking coin against a greater need, further down the road.

“Your time would be better spent amongst the Company.” Fili told him. “Keep surrounding yourself with all these lanky folk and I’ll come back to find you’ve clipped your ears and started singing to the trees.”

Kili didn’t say anything, though the words stung, just a little. Fili wasn’t to know but ‘clipped ears’ had been one of the kinder insults levelled at him by others over the years. Young men, forced together for periods of time, were bound to throw their weight around. Kili with his bow and meagre beard had been a prime target for some less than kind remarks. A fist to the gut or a kick to the knee had put pay to the insults well enough, but he took no pleasure from hearing Fili repeat them, even if they were half in jest.

Seeing his brother had no intention of leaving, Fili wandered off, threatening to send Thorin after him if he did not return to them by lunch. His departure meant that some of the elves who had been idling by – reluctant to peer at Kili’s wares whilst the brothers were talking – now came forward. It was clear they had no interest in purchasing any of the proffered jewellery, but their presence made Kili’s seem less alien, and soothed some of the ruffled feathers Kili had sensed in his onlookers. Soon enough, a few of the wealthier maidens of the household had stopped to inspect a set of twinned rings (followed rather quickly by their lords or brothers, when one of the ladies thought to gift Kili was a smile and a wink). Kili was happy to flirt and talk with them – to flatter his audience and his own skill – like any other tradesman. From time to time he felt eyes on him, as though someone was watching from the walkways above his head. But each time he looked up, he saw only wood and shadow. No one could have been watching him after all.

The Company’s taunts and Dwalin’s gruff rebukes followed him away from the meal, that evening. Stooping low, Kili collected his sword and bow from where they rested against a balustrade, half-hidden amongst the tumble of axes, swords, and hammers of the Company. Weapons had not been permitted at the table, save for Orcrist and Glamdring (which had been brought at Gandalf’s insistence). Kili had felt uncertain about leaving his bow so unattended, but neither had he felt comfortable leaving it in his room, too far away to reach should he have need of it.

“I have never seen a dwarf archer before.” A voice said, behind him, and Kili turned to see the lyre-player from the feast, standing in the shadow of an archway.

“Yeah, well. There’s more of us than you’d think.”

The elf raised a delicate eyebrow. “Indeed.”

Kili shifted his weight uneasily, casting a hesitant look to see if any of the Company had followed him. After Bofur’s scorn at his inability to discern an elf-lad from and elf-lass, Kili had no wish to be the recipient of further taunts. So much for his eagle eyes, they’d said. What good is a warrior if he can’t even know a lass when he sees one? Fili had shared in the merriment, calling across to their uncle that he might need to pair him with a different watchman, if they didn’t want their camps overrun in the night. Thorin had simply huffed and made no argument.

The elf followed the direction of his gaze, before talking a few sedate steps closer. “My brother was an archer. He used to talk of how a bowstring could sing in a fight. He would say it was music sweeter than that produced by any harp or lyre.”

Kili grinned, “Then your brother and I are in agreement. There’ll never be a sweeter tune for me.”

The elf’s smile was a little sad. “That is what Rhondir said.”

Kili was a bit late in picking up the past-tense. “I’m sorry.” He offered. “It’s never easy, losing family.”

“No.” The elf agreed, “It is not.” He took a breath, and the sorrow on his face seemed to be wiped away, like a slate which had been washed clean. “Forgive me, I have kept you from your business. Good evening.” 

“Wait.” The word was out before Kili was quite sure what he was saying. “If you wanted – ” he said, half-unsure and half-desperate to do something to ease the pain, “if you wanted, I’d be happy to talk you through dwarven archery. It might not be the same as having your brother with you again, but if you wanted –” Perhaps it made no sense, what Kili was offering. He only knew that if Fili were gone and in his grave, he would want someone to talk to him of swordplay. He would want to the chance to pretend that it was Fili talking to him, again – like when they were children.

The elf looked startled and then his face relaxed into a small smile. “Thank you. That is most kind –”

“Kili, son of Dís.”

“That is most kind, Kili. I am Hallon.”

They wound there way through the walkways and archways of Rivendell, until they came to a small balcony overlooking the water. It was a quiet place, out of the way, where they were unlikely to be disturbed, and Kili guided Hallon’s hands to the limbs of his bow, preparing to give a (rather censured) run down of how dwarves use the bow.

It was how Thorin found him, turned toward a young elf lord, hands gesturing as he recounted the tale of Durin’s line, and the elf’s long fingers tracing over the counterpoint engravings on his bow. So absorbed was he in the telling, in relishing the attentions of someone who flattered his skill as an archer, that he missed the heavy tread of his uncle’s boots, behind him. Hallon did not. He was up in a flash, dropping the bow into Kili’s lap and putting a good foot of distance between them, in an instant.

“Come with me.” 

Thorin’s voice brooked no argument, and Kili scrambled to his feet, whispering apologies to Hallon, who had moved until his back was pressed against the columns. The elf seemed sceptical of Kili’s hurried reassurances, but merely nodded his acceptance as Kili hastened to follow his uncle’s footsteps. Thorin’s stride was long and made quick by anger. Fili started as Thorin stormed into the room that had been assigned to them, sword in hand as though prepared to meet some hidden threat. Kili closed the door behind them and waited for the dam to burst.

“You would tell the stories of our kin to an _elf_?” Thorin’s hands were balled into fists; he was practically shaking with rage.

“I meant nothing by it, Uncle. He was young, and curious. What harm was there in telling him a story?” 

“They are _our_ stories, meant for _our_ people.” Thorin said. “They are not sweets or toys to be given out freely to all who ask for them.”

“You seemed willing enough to share them with Bilbo.” Kili pointed out. He could feel anger and resentment rising in his throat. He was not a child, and those stories were hardly secrets; he had the right to tell them to others if he deemed them worthy. Thorin had made no protest when Kili and Fili had shared similar tales with Bilbo on the road.

“That is entirely different.” Thorin said. “Hobbits are not elves. Or do you forget what our people suffered because of them? You have dishonoured yourself.”

“If you truly believed that,” Kili snapped, “You would have already cut off my beard.”

“You would have to be capable of growing one first.” Thorin said. “And Mahal has seen fit to ensure that you cannot even do that.”

Kili reeled back as if slapped. He heard Fili make a cry of protest, but it sounded faint and distant over the ringing in his ears. All knew that a dwarf’s beard was his strength, his honour. Only those Mahal deemed Unworthy failed to grow a proper one. They were forced to live like men, clean-shaven, disgraced, their shame evident to all who met them.

“Uncle.” Fili’s voice was pained, but Kili didn’t want to look to see whether there was satisfaction or guilt on Thorin’s face. His uncle may have spoken in anger – more rashly than he might otherwise have done – but there was no doubt in Kili’s mind that it was a thought which had been brewing for a while. It made sense. Thorin had always thought him unworthy, and now here was Mahal’s proof. No matter that Kili’s cheeks were dark with stubble – where the Unworthy failed to produce even a single hair. He had not beard enough to honour Durin’s line; he was a disgrace. It was a relief, in some ways, to finally have it acknowledged in the open. 

At some point, Kili must have closed his eyes, for when he opened them again, it was to the sound of the door shutting and Thorin nowhere in sight. Fili was still standing by the beds, as though hesitant to come near, and Kili swallowed against the pain.

“I doubt he is the first to have said it.” He said at last, when Fili could do nothing but stare at him in anguish. His brother rushed to his side, strong arms embracing Kili tightly, ignoring quiver and bow and the heavy jacket Kili still wore.

“He didn’t mean it, _nadad_.” Fili whispered fiercely. “He didn’t mean it. You’re young still.” The words tangled in Kili’s hair. “Your beard will grow in time. One day it will be greater even than Grandfather’s was, before the mountain fell. You’ll see. You’ll see.”

Kili pressed his face to his brother’s shoulder and clung to him in return. He didn’t mention that Fili was only five years his senior or that Fili had possessed more of a beard twenty years ago, than Kili did at this moment. The sun was bleeding into the horizon, before Kili released his brother again.

For as long as he lived, Fili would never forget the sheer terror in his uncle’s voice as he called for Kili on the mountainside; how panicked he had been when he had found Fili but not Kili by his side in the goblin tunnels. Nor would he forget how fiercely Kili had fought against those hoards. As Gandalf led them up and to the light, Kili had been the one to press the advantage, time and time again. Kili had never touted himself as a swordsman, but few could have doubted his skill that day. Fili had heard Dwalin mention it to his uncle, as they settled down for the night in Beorn’s house: how proud he was of the warrior he had trained. Kili, as usual, was oblivious. And Thorin had not yet taken the time to make the sentiment known to him.

Their uncle worried. Fili knew this – even without his mother’s cautions before they left Ered Luin – but the harsh realities of the road had made it plainer. They had travelled with their uncle before, of course: short journeys, with the caravans, or brief expeditions to the towns of men to look for work. Kili was a fine smith and his lack of beard and easy charm meant that the goodwives of the towns they visited often took a liking to him. 

It was often Kili who became the spokesman for their work (though it was Thorin’s reputation as a smith that earned them repeat custom) and the women of the town, pleased with Kili’s manners (and perhaps equally pleased with his looks) recommend the dwarf-smiths to their men-folk. It was a familiar and unvarying routine. They would arrive in town, Thorin would send Kili off to barter food or lodgings, and Kili would come back with a reputable woman in tow. He would demonstrate the quality of their wares and quote the price for mending pots or fixing horseshoes – or whatever else it was needed doing round those parts – and more often than not the woman’s departure meant work for them in the morning. Fili wasn’t sure if Kili even realised what he was doing. To Kili, conversation, smiles and jokes, came as easily as breathing. Fili could still remember, in the hazy way of children who are very young, those early years after Kili was born. Their Da was gone and their mother had taken to staring off into the distance at odd times, but Kili’s laughter would always have her smiling. Kili had always amused himself easily and his laughter had filled their home. One of Fili’s strongest memories from those times was of his mother laughing so hard she had tears in her eyes, as Dwalin attempted to balance Kili on his knee and his little brother shrieked with glee as Thorin snapped twigs into kindling. To this day, Fili had no idea as to what Kili had found so hysterical in the process. Thorin would lift a twig, hold it steady for a moment, and then break the wood apart with a crack. Kili, each time, had descended into gales of high-pitched laughter, and all those around him had been forced to laugh as well. 

Everyone laughed less, now. Times were grown dark and Fili knew that much weighed on his uncle’s mind. The hardships of the road had brought it to the fore – Thorin’s preoccupation for their safety making him grim and short-tempered. Since Rivendell, Kili had been more withdrawn – avoiding their uncle’s company when they camped for the night unless he was directly called for. Even here, in the relative safety of Beorn’s house, Kili kept his distance. He had let Fili braid his hair on their first night, soothed perhaps by the old ritual of it, but had refused any such attentions since then. Thorin had been the one to braid Fili’s hair, and allowed his nephew to braid his in kind; Kili had watched them with dark eyes, from the far side of the fireplace. 

“Will you speak with him, Uncle?” Fili asked, voice low as the Company rose for breakfast, the following morning. 

It was clear to him, at least, that his uncle regretted his words to Kili in the Last Homely House. He had spoken in anger and frustration, nerves worn thin by the constant company of so many elves. Still, there had been no excuse for the insult, and all knew it. Had Kili reacted with anger, shouted, yelled, demanded recompense (even if he never made those demands to Thorin), Fili would not have been so worried. But Kili had not said a word. He had sat on the bed, cradling his bow, and stared at nothing, lost to thought. 

Thorin looked like he might refuse, but Fili clasped his forearm tightly and at last, Thorin nodded. Apologies were never easy for him, but this was one which needed to be made. Still, that was easier said than done. As he stepped out of the house, he saw the tails of Kili’s coat disappear around the corner. Kili was making every effort to avoid him and short of ordering his nephew into his presence, Thorin knew that little could be done about it. It was clear Kili was not ready to hear an apology and, until tempers cooled, Thorin thought it best to wait. 

He found Bilbo practicing with his short sword amongst the flowers of Beorn’s garden. The hobbit’s form was better than it had been in Rivendell, though he was still far from being a seasoned warrior.

“So, Master Burglar. How did you like your first taste of battle?”

Bilbo shrugged and let his sword daggle uselessly by his side. “I have no particular wish to repeat the experience in the near future. But I am not so foolish as to think that wish a reality.”

Thorin snorted, casting his eyes above Beorn’s hedgerows, where the shadows of the Misty Mountains stood grey and tall in the distance. 

“Your nephews do you credit.” Bilbo said suddenly, drawing Thorin’s attention back towards him. “I’ve never seen anyone so fierce as when they rushed Azog after he disarmed me. I thought Kili might try to part Azog’s head from his neck with his bare hands.”

Thorin could well-imagine the sight. “He could do little else,” he said, trusting Bilbo to share the joke, “having seen an un-blooded warrior half his size tackle an orc with no thought to his own safety.”

Bilbo laughed along with him, voice ringing loud and merry in the field of flowers. He knew as well as Thorin that the only thing which had kept his nephews – kept any of the company – from joining Bilbo in that initial charge had been their desperate attempts not to plummet to their deaths from creaking trees. Bilbo was light on his feet, and unburdened by dwarvish armour. Dwalin had expressed his own frustrations at being unable to find a foothold strong enough to hold him as he struggled to come to Thorin’s aid.

In the end it had been Kili, with his archer’s grace, who had led the charge from the tree, Fili sprinting along in his wake. Even half-dead, with darkness clawing at the edges of his mind, Thorin had heard his nephews’ battle cries. If that had been his final memory of this life, he would have died proud. Instead, he had been blessed with the chance to live with that pride. When all this was over he would regale Dís with tales of the courage of her sons. Their bards and minstrels would compose songs in their honour – in honour of all their Company – but all the dwarves of Middle Earth would know the names of Durin’s youngest heirs.

Bilbo squinted at the sky and put his sword away. “I do believe it is almost time for luncheon.” He said decisively, turning back towards the house.

Thorin laughed, low and genuinely amused. “Breakfast was not two hours past.” He said, though he followed Bilbo easily enough.

“Well,” Bilbo said, embarrassment rouging his cheeks, “perhaps just a light snack then.”

Neither of them noticed the figure lingering in the shadows of the trees, within easy hearing of their conversation.

Bilbo’s laughter stayed sour and stagnant in Kili’s ears. His failure in the fight against Azog weighed heavily on him. So concerned had he been for Fili’s safety that he had barely noticed their uncle facing off against the Pale Orc, alone. Then, even after Bilbo threw himself headfirst into battle and Dwalin nearly fell to his death trying to follow, Kili was still slow to take up his sword. Fili had been scrambling for purchase amongst the branches, trying to arm himself and dive into the fray all at the same time and all Kili had done was clutch as his brother and try to keep him in the trees. The ground had swayed sickeningly below them, wind tugging at hair and clothes and making their final shelter creak alarmingly. All Kili had been able to think of in those moments had been Fili; of their mother’s face if he were to return to her an only child. Erebor needed its heir; his mother needed her firstborn. Better Kili plummet to his death keeping his brother safe than to face his mother’s heartbreak. It was not until he had succeeded in pulling Fili onto the thicker safety of the trunk that he had realised the reality of his uncle’s danger. He’d moved almost without thinking then, carving his way into the nearest warg, sword a heavy weight in his grasp. His arrows had been lost in Goblin Town and besides, blades were better for piecing warg hides.

By the time the eagles had carried them away, Kili’s sides had been heaving with exertion and he’d made a vow to Mahal to practice more often with a blade. Fili, too, had been panting, though his lack of breath seemed to be born more from fear for their uncle than from fatigue. Watching Thorin embrace the Burglar, Kili had almost wept from relief. Fili was alive. Thorin was alive. They were safe. He busied himself with helping Oin check the members of their company for wounds (knowing Dwalin would protest his health even were his arm about to drop off) and deliberately not looking at how his brother and uncle clung to one another, Thorin’s words to low to be caught by neighbouring ears. At one point he thought Thorin might have embraced him too, but at the last minute his uncle veered away to speak with Gandalf instead. 

He had let Fili braid his hair that night; his brother had seemed in need of the comfort. It was nice, to feel someone’s hands in his hair again. His mother had taken pleasure in doing this for them, though she always kept her braids for him simple, the twin plaits of Durin’s line, rather than the more elaborate testimonies of skill and deed that she gave to Fili. His uncle had granted him a more elaborate style once – or at least, Kili thought he had. By the time he had raised his hands to try and feel the design, Thorin had slid his fingers through the braid, undoing the work, and letting Kili’s hair hang loose once more. That his uncle had not even tried to tie off the braid, was telling. And Kili had made no attempt to put braids into his own hair since. Fili still did it for him, sometimes. But more often than not, Kili left his hair unadorned.

The sounds of music began to drift across the garden from the house: flutes and pipes and Bofur’s raucous singing. With a sigh, Kili followed the sounds. His continued absence had already been remarked upon and he had no wish to draw further derision. _Still_ , he thought, as he caught sight of Beorn’s horses milling in their paddock, _another half-hour couldn’t hurt_

Fili was sure he lost ten years off his life as he watched his brother launch himself from the barrels. Clothes wet and steps hampered, reaching to open the gate, as an arrow pierced his thigh. Fili was not the only one to scream at the sight, as Kili crumpled and his face went white. His brave brother, so desperate to see their quest succeed – always headless of the danger, as he threw himself between his family and the threat. There was never a more foolhardy dwarf.

When Kili was returned to him, wounded but _alive_ , Fili nearly wept for joy.

So, this was what is meant to fail: unloved and un-honoured. Darkness stalked the edges of Kili’s vision as pain gnawed its way up his leg, all the way to his throat. Someone may have been holding his hand, but Kili wasn’t sure. All he could focus on was the memory of Thorin’s face as he had barred Kili from the boat. He had meant to take Fili into danger without Kili there to protect him. All his life, Kili had known that every day was leading up to this. The day he would stand between his brother and Death and hold fast so that his brother might see another day. For all he knew Thorin doubted him, for all he knew his Uncle had never believed Kili had earned that sort of trust, equally he had never truly believed that Thorin might choose to leave him behind. Beardless, Unworthy, a disgrace to Durin’s line – Thorin had turned him away and everyone had seen. Balin’s eyes had been sad and resigned, no doubt he had seen this coming. How could Kili have been so blind? Raised for a single duty and in the hour of need found wanting. His mother would be so ashamed.

Dimly he could hear Fili’s frantic discussions with Gloin, was distantly aware of someone pressing a cool cloth to his head. Kili would die here and he would be laid to rest among the graves of Men. If the line of Durin prevailed, it would not be because Kili, son of Dís and son of Angvari, had ensured it. He had failed, as he had been failing since the outset. How would he face his family in Mandos’ halls, knowing this? He was no Prince Under the Mountain; he was no heir to Durin’s line. He was nothing. He would not be remembered.

The battle was won, though it might yet prove to be a pyrrhic victory. Thorin and his heirs lingered in the doorway between life and death. Gandalf and the Elven healers had done all they could. Dwalin kept a constant vigil. He would loose the sight in one eye and it was doubtful if his left hand would ever hold a blade again, so smashed were the bones of his fingers, but he breathed and lived and Balin gave near-constant thanks to his Maker for that.

Bofur had lost his leg below the knee, and Dori had taken a blow to the head that had left his speech slow and slurred. It was not yet known if he would recover with time. 

Fili stirred, head shifting restlessly on the blankets, the first sign of true life in days. Dwalin wept silently, hope a dangerous beast lodged within his breast, but the prince subsided again without truly waking and everything once more seemed bleak. Kili lay as still as a corpse and sickly in pallor. 

Gloin had told the others of how he had seen the younger prince throw himself in the way of the blade meant for his brother’s head. The blow had carved Kili open from shoulder to hip. Only the quick thinking of Mirkwood’s prince had helped to stem the bleeding. Even as he lay dying, Kili had tried to give orders for his brother’s protection. He had pressed his sword into the elf’s hand, pointing with what strength he had left, to his brother. He had collapsed into unconsciousness soon after, but rumour said that Legolas’ report to his father had contained Kili’s last words: _Leave me. Protect him._

Balin shook his head. He had wondered before if the brothers’ devotion to each other might one day interfere with their duty to the throne. A king’s first duty was to his people – his family came a distant second. But Fili and Kili had only ever known each other, kept from the weight of royal duty by the circumstances of their people. They knew the requirements of their station only in the academic sense and Balin was not sure that Kili, at least, would have the strength to set his family aside, should duty require. He had always been the more passionate of the two. Fili was a more natural thinker; no less fierce in his loyalty, but less likely to rush headlong into conflict if his sense of justice demanded it. Kili would brook no insult to his family. And, though Thorin remained largely unaware of it, Balin knew of more than one fight that Kili had instigated upon hearing some slur upon his uncle. Time would tell, he supposed, which way the wind blew. After all, Kili was still young. And now they had a kingdom to protect.

A soft rustle of cloth behind him, alerted Balin to the presence of their Burglar. 

“There is no change, then?”

“None at all.”

Bilbo sighed, edging into Balin’s view to take the king’s hand between both of his. “You have work to be doing, King Under the Mountain. Imagine, a dwarf of your standing, still laying abed at this hour. Come now, you need to wake up. Those two boys of yours need you.”

The words were not meant for Balin’s hearing, but the distance between them was too small for anything else. Catching his brother’s eye, Balin withdrew, trusting Dwalin to watching over their King. Thorin had forgiven Bilbo in the end, in his tent on the battlefield, when all had thought he would breathe his last. Bilbo had wept then, knelt at Thorin’s side, clutching his hand – much as he did now.

Their Burglar would be leaving in the morning. Gandalf had promised to see him as far as the Last Homely House and Bilbo, for all that he had protested, had eventually been cajoled into agreeing. The mountain was no place for a creature of meadows and sunlight. Biblo had begun to wilt beneath the stone and Oin had insisted that the hobbit needed to go home. He would be welcome to return at any time, but the quest had taken its toll on all of them. It had cost Bilbo dearly, to stay beneath the mountain, bathing Fili’s brow and changing Kili’s bandages, sitting vigil by Thorin’s bedside whenever Dwalin would allow it. Better to regain one’s health amongst the comfort and familiarity of home. Bilbo could return in Spring, if he wished it. But it would be best for all concerned if he left before winter gained a stronger foothold. 

Sighing against the unhappy thought of being parted from another friend, Balin stepped out onto the battlements to be greeted by the chill winter air. From below came the call of Dwarvish horns and the answering call from Men as a supply wagon rolled up to the Mountain’s gates. Trade was born more from necessity than anything else. Dáin had ordered for what food there was spare to be bought with Erebor’s coin and brought into the mountain. Balin had instructed Gloin to keep a careful ledger of the expense. The division of the treasure had, after much posturing, been sensibly delayed. But the Company had been promised an equal share of the treasure, and they would watch how much Dáin drew down on that gold. 

Dáin’s men had saluted him as Regent whilst Thorin and his nephews slept, and with none of the weapons or food needed to withstand a siege, and without a more legitimate claim to the throne than Dáin, the members of the Company had been forced to give way. It sat ill with Balin, that Dáin had already begun to comport himself as King Under the Mountain. In Council it was Balin’s voice that reminded his cousin that he was nought but a Protector; it was Dwalin who had blocked the way to the throne when Dáin might have made a move to sit upon it. Dáin Ironfoot was well-loved by his men, and his arrival had contributed in no small way to Erebor’s victory, in battle. Now, the flag of the Iron Hills fluttered at the heights, and Dáin’s men kept watch at the gates.

As snow began to drift down in soft, white flakes, Balin prayed that Thorin would soon wake.

For a moment, Ori thought he had been woken by the clanging of the bells. But there were no bells that rang like that to be found within the Mountain and the rhythm was wrong. Brushing sleep from his eyes, Ori pushed himself onto his elbow, only to realise that the hollow toll of iron was not a bell, but the tramp of many booted feet as they raced through the halls. Worried, Ori cast about in the darkness of the room for the shapes of his brothers. Dori was pushing himself upright in the bed, no doubt brought away by the commotion, as Ori had been, but Nori’s bed was empty and the crack of light from where the door had been left attested to where he had gone.

Ori slithered his way out of bed, hissing as his feet touched the cold stone of the floor, and went to assist his brother. Though Dori was making remarkable progress, considering all that had happened, he still struggled with simple tasks like folding back the bedclothes, before he was fully awake. 

Ori was just helping Dori pull a tunic over his head, when Nori slipped back into the room.

“What’s happened?” Dori demanded, words slurring together at the edges.

Nori was smiling, relief evident in the lines of his face. “Kili’s woken up. He can move his limbs and he knows his mind. Balin is writing the notification to Dáin as we speak.” 

There was a silent understanding that Dáin’s men would not be happy at the news (even if Dáin himself gave way). Nori stowed his knives away on his person and Ori tucked his slingshot into his belt. Dori could not yet hold a weapon, but he tugged a shield onto his arm as the three brothers made their way to the Chambers of Healing.

Most of the Company were already there, forming an honour guard around the prince. Dáin’s guards – the source of all those tramping feet – were arrayed along the length of the corridor, visibly unsure of how to proceed. Ori wondered at their presence in the first place. Who had told them that Kili was awake? Were they here to protect Dáin? As an honour guard themselves? _It was too strange,_ he thought, even as the ranks of soldiers gave way. He let himself be tucked between Bifur and Gloin, listening with half an ear as Ori made Kili drink whatever medicine he had prepared for him, the prince’s voice low in the half-light of the chamber, but strong and clear all the same.

“Oin says he’s been drifting in and out, for the last two days.” Gloin whispered, voice pitched low enough that only Ori could hear. “Waited till His Highness could string more than a sentence or two together before alerting Balin. He’s awake now, and strong enough to stay that way.”

Ori nodded his understanding, leaning to his right just enough that he could pass the information on to Dori. A quick glance behind him, showed Kili pushing himself upright with a wince; face pale and eyes shadowed, but alive and capable of giving Ori a ghost of a smile.

The echo of a heavy tread rang in the corridor outside the hearing chambers and Dwalin took a step back, forcing the others to move with him, before sinking to one knee before Kili’s bed.

“All hail, Kili, Prince Under the Mountain. Your Uncle lies in the Chambers of Healing, laid low by wounds he took in battle, and your brother lies beside him. The King and his Heir are not dead and long may they live, but our people look to the royal line to lead them. You are the son of Dís, the daughter of Thrain, and you must rule as Regent now.”

They were much the same words as Dáin’s men had used before the blood of the battle had finished soaking into the rocks and the fields. Now the Company took their cue from Dwalin, voices raised in throaty cheers as they welcomed their prince to the throne.

Ori could sense the weight of Dáin’s presence behind his back, for all that he did not turn to look. There was a particular silence outside the circle of the Company, and Ori could tell that Kili felt it also. And yet, he found himself caught in the surety of Kili’s face. This was no lounger a young dwarf, untried, untrained, following his uncle through the wilderness. This was a Prince Under the Mountain, come into his own. Though he smiled at them, and accepted their oaths of service, as he swore to do his duty to Erebor until his Uncle woke, Kili’s eyes never wavered from the spot over Ori’s shoulder where Dáin stood watching, backed by his men.

In the weeks whilst Kili had lain sleeping – if sleep was what is could be called – Dáin had gathered the bodies of the Dwarven dead and lit the funeral pyres. It had grated on some – standing in the shadow of the Mountain – that they were forced to commend their kin to ash and flame, rather than to lay them rest beneath the stone. But the numbers of the dead had simply been too many, and Dáin would not risk the rotting of the bodies poisoning the water supply.

When Kili woke, Dáin’s advisors pushed for a Council to be called: for Bard to be summoned from the Lake, for Thranduil to be called back from his Woodland halls. But Kili stood firm. Before any action would be taken; before any bargain was made or treaty was struck, the dead of Erebor would be laid to rest. 

There number was almost incalculable and not all the bodies could be reclaimed. Smaug had eaten some, in those first days when Erebor had been taken and want of food or drink had forced some of those poor souls hiding in the halls to try and sneak past the dragon to the gate. The rest had starved to death, or killed themselves when they realised what sort of ending lay before them. 

It was Dáin’s lieutenant who found the children. Kili imagined that they must have died still holding onto one another. Their clothes had long since rotted away to dust and as muscle and sinew were lost to time as well, their bones had fallen to a heap on the chamber floor. It had once been a store room of some description, shelves and old jars caked in dust. The bones were carried from the chamber and laid with reverence in the first tomb to be carved in the mountainside. All those present wept for what had been lost. They all knew that those would not be the only children laid to rest in the coming weeks.

The burial of the dead took longer than Kili had anticipated. By the time the workers started on the last of the of the graves, Kili could move relatively freely and it no longer hurt to keep breathing. Dáin had been unhappy with the delay to the political proceedings but upon seeing the number of the dead still trapped within the halls, had offered no further disagreement. 

Now a Council had been called, set for four days time, after the final dwarves had been laid to rest. Kili broke the wax seal pressed into the parchment he was holding. The spreading branches of the Elven trees cracking apart beneath the pressure of his thumb nail. Thranduil’s answer was direct and to the point: _It has been done_.Kili had no great head for the flowering language of diplomacy and his letter to the Elf King had been equally blunt. _I understand you still have possession of the Arkenstone. I intend for this gem to be my gift to Lord Elrond, as reparations for his hospitality. I entrust the delivery of the Arkenstone to the wizard, Gandalf. I trust that you will see fit to transfer the stone to his possession._

He was taking a risk, he knew, sending the Arkenstone away. But the threat of Thorin’s madness loomed dark in his mind, and Bilbo had written to him, more than once, to ask what he intended to do about it. Ravens now routinely traced the journey from the Mountain to the Shire and Kili wished fiercely for Bilbo's swift return to them; he could use another friend. 

Dáin would wish to see the Arkenstone restored to the throne of Erebor. The dwarves he had brought with him expected it, the Company expected it; Thorin would be furious when he woke. But Kili knew his duty better than anything else. If such betrayal would protect the line of Durin, then Kili would commit to it, gladly.

A knock on the door brought him from his thoughts, and Kili hastily tucked the letter into the breast of his tunic. “Come in.”

Dáin seemed to fill the room as he entered it. He was flanked on both sides by members of his personal guard, Gloin and Dwalin standing close behind them. Kili caught Dwalin’s eye and nodded, ignoring the answering scowl as Dwalin led Gloin from the room. The two made sure to herd Dáin’s guards along with them, and as the door swung shut, Kili heard the beginnings of a whispered argument.

“You look tired, Cousin.” Dáin said, taking a seat without invitation. “Does your wound still pain you?” There was honest concern in Dáin’s voice, but Kili was reluctant to confide in him. His chest had, in truth, begun to throb like an old bruise and the sharp bite of a headache was beginning to be felt behind his right eye. But the bell had yet to be rung for suppertime, and Kili could not afford to be seen to retire before the evening meal. His power stood on a knife’s edge. Though perhaps a third of Dáin’s surviving army hailed from Erebor originally, they had yet to demonstrably throw their allegiance to Kili. Too many still watched him as though they expected him to drop dead at any moment. Still more looked to Dáin as the voice of experience and leadership. Kili might hold the mountain by right of blood, but if Dáin pressed the issue of the regency, Kili would find himself with very few friends to defend him.

“I’m fine.” He said, reaching for the dispatches Dáin had brought with him. Ravens had been sent to Ered Luin and his mother had at once begun to muster the caravans. But they would not be here until the summer, at the earliest, and until then, those left behind in the Blue Mountains would have to be kept updated as to the progress of the restoration.

The strong, bold lines of his mother’s hand were a comfort to him. She was already making plans for her own journey to aid in the restoration. At least in this, Dáin was happy to defer to the royal line. None could doubt the competence of the Lady Dís in leading her people back from exile and Dáin had accepted the polite but firm refusal of his soldiers’ aid with grace.

“No one would think less of you lad, if you said that all this was too much for you.”  
“I am dwarf enough to handle this.”

“Never said you weren’t, Cousin.” Kili looked up sharply, but Dáin stared back at him, open, honest, friendly. Doubt gnawed at Kili’s stomach. He knew the rumours that were circulating. His declarations to Tauriel had been witnessed by more than the few dwarves of the Company. The Men of the Lake had wagging tongues, and already Kili had heard the whispers which stopped when he drew near: _elf-friend_. The word was not said with any kindness. That he had stood firm against Dáin when Balin had declared that Thorin had pardoned Bilbo for his theft, had not helped matters. By all dwarvish codes of honour, without that pardon, Bilbo should have had his hair shaved off and been banished from the mountain. Dáin had not believed any such pardon could have taken place – too incensed over the insult and the loss of the Arkenstone to hear reason. In the end, it had only been the combined strength of the Company, adding their voices to the argument, that had won the day. 

Dáin had never openly objected to Kili’s place as Regent, but with the letter from Thranduil burning against his breast, Kili knew it was only a matter of time.

The crash of steel on steel echoed in the Great Hall. Dwalin’s axe filled Kili’s vision for a moment, before the old dwarf heaved, with all his strength, and sent his opponent tumbling away again. The dwarf – one of Dáin’s soldiers – lay still and unmoving, knocked silly from where he had hit his head.

Dáin was on his feet, demanding the restoration of order. Dwalin refused to be moved, Grasper and Keeper held ready at his sides. Kili was resigned.

He had known that this was coming. As certainly as he knew that the sun rose in the East and that upon his death he would be commended into Mandos’ halls, he had known the challenge this Council would bring.

Dáin was nearly spitting with fury. His face was puffed, red and sweating. His fists shook as he stared at Kili, mouth moving but unable to force the words out past his rage. With a hand on Dwalin’s shoulder, Kili moved him back.

“Stand down.”

It was an order from a Prince to his sworn Swordsman. Dwalin clearly wanted to disobey, but in the end he stepped aside.

“You are a _disgrace_. Your Uncle, your mother, your brother would be ashamed. _You_ should be ashamed. As long as Durin’s line has lasted, never has any dwarf brought such dishonour to their name. You are not fit to lead our people. You are not fit to even speak their names. Your ancestors weep to see you, boy. Were you not kin to me I would strike you dead, for this.”

Kili’s mind begin to race. He reminded himself that he had been expecting this. Though the Regency gave him the right to dispense of property belonging to the royal line as he saw fit (in theory), the reality was a different beast. The Council would never have ratified the decision, and with too few dwarves to hold the mountain, Kili would have been forced to acquiesce. By acting without their knowledge or consent Kili was, technically, exercising the traditional authority of the dwarvish kings, but few would see it that way. 

A choice now lay before him. He could fight Dáin for the Regency. He could hope that those of Dáin’s army who had once called Erebor home might flock to his banner – might choose a Prince of Erebor over the Lord of the Iron Hills – but it was risky. Even with a hundred extra men, Dáin’s forces would still outnumber him. It would be a bloodbath. Even if Kili kept control of the mountain, the quarrel would likely leave him without the dwarves needed to see the Mountain through the winter. And if he lost, what then? If he were dead, who would keep his brother, his uncle, from feeling an assassin’s knife between the ribs? Too many of Dáin’s folk already treated him as King Under the Mountain – deferring to his authority over Kili’s. Were Kili gone, for how long would his brother remain safe?

In the end, there was no choice at all. Taking his Uncle’s ring from his finger, Kili held it out to Dáin. His cousin blinked, one hand still wrapped around the handle of his axe, for a moment struck dumb with surprise. “I did what was necessary to defend my King and my kingdom.” Kili said. “But I accept that I have lost the confidence of the people I must lead. I must, therefore, abdicate my role as Regent, and place my trust in you Cousin, to lead our people well until His Majesty, or the Crown Prince, should wake.” 

Dáin reached forward and took the ring. The Great Hall was silent. Dwalin was looking at Kili with something close to despair on his face. With a final nod to his cousin, Kili left the chamber, making straight for his brother’s bedside. He stopped, only once, to collect a shirt of mail and a sword from the armoury.

Dáin scowled and stamped his feet. The air was cold up on the battlements and snow limed the edges of the steps. That fool boy; that damned _fool_ boy. This is what came of making the young take up their father’s mantels before their time. He had been no more than a child himself when his father fell at Azanulbizar. He had been fortunate, however, that his mother had been alive to rule as Regent in his stead until he came of age. Young, grieving the death of more than half his family, Dáin had been in no state to rule then. He had known it at the time and known it even better since. And yet what had he done? Let that old codger Dwalin call a stripling lad to the throne. Dáin should have stood his ground: let the boy heal, let him mourn the fallen dead, let him give thanks that his uncle and his brother had not yet joined them. Instead, Dáin had given way, and nothing but misery had come from it.

The Arkenstone – the divine proof of Thror’s right to rule – lost again. To where, Kili would not say. Thorin and Fili still lay in the Chambers of Healing, and Dáin had lost all true hope of ever seeing them wake. What was he to do? Could Kili, having shamed himself so thoroughly, ever be seen as fit to rule. Were Thorin to pass and Fili never wake, he was the next in line for the throne, but what dwarf would follow him when they learnt of what he had done?

There was no choice but to wait for Dís to come. She would know what to do, how to best handle her son. Dáin need only see Erebor through the winter and perhaps the spring. Then he could dump the whole mess into Dís’ lap and _go home_.

He cocked his head as his Guard Captain came up the stairs behind him. “What is it, Lånda?”

“My lord, you asked for word of the younger prince?”

“Aye, I did.” Dáin had worried that the lad might do something foolish and had set his people to keeping track of his movements.

“He has gone to his brother’s side, my lord.” Lånda’s voice was as bland as it had ever been, inviting him to guess at the meaning behind the words. Dáin had known her since they had both had clean cheeks; he had been fit to be tied when her beard had grown in before his. Ever had she been this way.

“Speak plainly, Lånda.” Dáin said. “I don’t have the energy for games today.”

“He barely sleeps, and takes food only when Master Oin demands it.” Lånda said. “He sits all day and all night, sword unsheathed, dressed as if ready for battle. He refuses to allow any of our people to pass the door and insists on tasting all food and drink before it is given to either the King or the Prince.”

For a moment Dáin was sure he had misheard. Surely the lad could not think – 

“When did this start?”

“From the moment he ceded the crown, my lord.”

With long years of rule and battle behind him, having known treachery and anger and betrayal, Dáin was sure he had never known a hurt as deep as this one. 

He had wondered, before, what had put the edge of fear into his cousin’s eyes. He had thought, naively it seemed now, that it had been the weight of ruling that so frightened Kili. Now he looked back on their interactions differently.

Since that night when he had been proclaimed Regent, Kili had not set foot within a hundred yards of his family’s bedsides. Dáin had thought it the act of a boy protecting himself – knowing his attention could not afford to be divided. It looked, now, far more like the act of the warrior leading the wolves away from the feasts that huddled, vulnerable, behind closed doors. 

“I must speak with Balin.” Dáin said, turning back towards the staircase.

“He was last seen in the Library, my lord.”

Dáin grunted his thanks and quickened his steps. Mahal willing, Balin would know what was to be done about this mess.

Upon seeing Dáin enter, Balin quietly shooed his apprentice away and set about re-arranging the books they had been sorting into three separate piles. It was undoing all the work of the long morning, but it would serve to make him look busy. Ori, good lad that he was, caught on quickly enough and hurried out a side entrance – no doubt making his way to Kili to tell him the latest news.

Balin hummed softly to himself as he worked, to all appearances an old and mild-mannered dwarf who might be going slightly deaf, besides. Dáin was forced to clear his throat twice, before Balin saw fit to acknowledge him.

“Oh, my Lord Dáin. I didn’t see you, there.”

Dáin simply grunted in reply. Looking closer, Balin could see that the Lord of the Iron Hills looked tired and drawn, as if a great weight had settled on his shoulders. Perhaps the first blush of Kingship was not sitting well with him – it would be no less than he deserved.

“You are aware, I assume, of what my young cousin has done?” Dáin said.

“Oh aye,” Balin agreed, “gone to sit with his brother, ‘til he wakes again. He’s a good lad, like that.”

“And that fact that he sits there with sword and shield?” Dáin wanted to know.

“It was his first battle.” Balin snorted, “How long did it take you to forget your first real taste of bloodshed.”

“Do not attempt to pull the wool down over _my eyes_ , Son of Fundin. I know what it is he fears. What I want to know is _why_?”

“You need to ask?” Balin enquired mildly. “Thorin’s body had barely been taken from the field before you were swearing your oaths as Regent. The lad woke to find your banners on the gates and your guards in his halls and your name being given as the ultimate authority. You have paraded yourself as King, in all but name, since you arrived. Any wonder that we worry for the fate of Durin’s line.”

“They are my kin.” Dáin snarled. “As much as they are yours, and a closer tie besides. I did what was needed to keep Erebor. My cousin damn near gave his life to reclaim this throne – it would be poor service were he to wake to find it lost again so quickly.”

“And you had no further motivation.” It was almost a question and the implication hung in the air between them. Gold, Erebor’s gold, the promise of the mountain. Dáin was not a fool. He had heard, in full, the insults Thorin had hurled at his messenger when Dáin refused to join his armies to his cousin’s Company. The King Under the Mountain had cursed them all for mercenaries, unwilling to stir themselves lest there be the promise of gold coin.

“I am content in the Iron Hills, Cousin.” Dáin said, firm and with all the sincerity he could put into the words. “I want nothing more than to see my Cousin on the throne and to return to my own halls.”

Balin eyed him for several long moments, before at last his face relaxed and the tension bled out of his shoulders. “Aye, laddie, I believe you.”

Dáin snorted, pleased. “Now tell me: what am I going to do about our fool prince, and what in the Maker’s name am I meant to do about the Arkenstone?”

The room was dark, lit only by a solitary lamp, placed near the door. Balin could see the shadow of Kili’s hunched form, knees drawn to his chest and sword balanced against his legs, half-slumped at the end of his brother’s bed.

The creaking of the door brought him to startled wakefulness, steel flashing before the recognised Balin in the doorway. He fell back, exhausted, face slack with fatigue.

Balin side. “Enough laddie, it’s time for you to leave, now.”

Kili jerked, trying to simultaneously reach for his brother and for Balin – though what he intended to do when he got there was anyone’s guess. “No, I –”

“You’ve made a right hash of things,” Balin said, though he meant it kindly, “that mess with the Arkenstone will have more consequences than any of us could guess at, right now. Time now to make what amends you can.”

“But Balin –”

“No buts, laddie. Have you even given thought to what you’re mother might say? She’ll be here before the Solstice, at the last reckoning. You really think she’ll want to see you, here? Like this?”

Kili let himself be dragged from his brother’s bed, dazed and weak. It was clear he had not washed in several days, and Balin wrinkled his nose as he pulled Kili from the room and toward his own bed.

“Dáin says I shamed Uncle, giving away the Arkenstone.” Kili said. Balin pushed back the blankets and settled Kili against the mattress, tugging the lad’s boots off and setting them on the floor – much as he had seen Thorin do when his nephews were small. 

“Aye laddie, you did.” There was no escaping that truth really. “No real way of getting around that, now.”

“And now I can’t stay with Fili?” The words were slurred with fatigue, and Balin wondered if now was the best time to try and impart the lesson he thought both princes needed.

“No lad. You’ll do your brother more harm than good, if you carry on as you have been. A change of scene, I think. Best for all concerned.” It would do Kili good to get out of the sickroom, to remember that he had duties beneath the Mountain, even if he wasn’t Regent.

A frown stole over Kili’s face, and Balin found himself struggling to guess what the boy was thinking. “I understand.” Kili said slowly. “Thank you, Master Balin. I understand, now. I think.”

Balin rather doubted that Kili was in a fit state to be understanding anything, but he let the matter drop and gave Kili a quick pat on the head. “Good lad. Go to sleep now. The rest of us’ll take care of matters, in the meantime.”

Kili was asleep before Balin had closed the door behind him. Making his way back to the Chambers of Healing, Balin found Dwalin sitting in Kili’s vacated seat.

The moon was not yet fully risen, when Kili packed his things. A quick trip to his brother’s sickroom had revealed Dwalin standing guard, Gloin keeping a similar watch over Thorin. There were not yet enough dwarves in the mountain for all night-time wanderings to be noticed by the Watch, and Kili had learnt their patterns well enough while he had been Regent. Now, slipping through halls still dusty with disuse, Kili found himself at the hidden entrance on the side of the mountain. The grinding of the stone echoed appallingly as Kili opened the door and for a terrible moment he thought he might be caught – but no, he was away and clear and he had escaped the final shame of being thrown from the mountain by Dáin.

He had thought, ‘til Balin came to see him, that he might yet prove himself worthy. He would guard his brother till he woke to take the Regency, and in doing so would undo the failure that had left his brother to be so grievously injured in the first place.

The snow lay thick across the ground, this high up the mountainside and Kili suppressed a shiver at the cold. He would be warm enough, once he got moving. He cast one look back into the mountain before letting the door fall closed behind him. Dwalin would keep Fili safe, and Kili would be gone far beyond anybody’s reach by the time Dís made it to the mountain. He would be the only one sullied by the shame. Durin’s line would remain strong and free from the taint.

It was a slow and treacherous journey down the mountain, with only cloud-filtered stars and a weak moon to see by. He was still tired, having stolen only a few hours sleep after Balin left, and his arms and legs felt heavy with fatigue.

He had a passing fancy that he might trouble Bard for his hospitality, but caution kept him away from Lake Town, in the end. He made for the Northern edge of the lake, keeping well out of sight of the Lake Men’s patrols.

A few days’ journey would bring him to the Old Withered Heath. From there, he hoped, it would be simple matter of fading into obscurity. He only prayed he that he would be beyond the reach of Erebor by the time his mother arrived. Balin had said to expect her before the Solstice, and she might just make it, if her party moved at a fair clip from the Blue Mountains all the way to Mirkwood. They would have had an easier time of the crossing with so many of the orcs in the Misty Mountains dead at Erebor’s feat. But it would be a hard march and winter had gripped the land for weeks.

Oin had scolded Dís, in her absence, for trying to drag a small regiment of dwarves across Middle Earth at this time of year. But Dís had been right in her insistence that Erebor needed labourers and craftsmen. The first of the caravans would arrive with the spring, the rest would be there by the summer. It was vital that when they arrived there were homes to house them, an infrastructure to support them, a government to guide them. Dís brought with her those who were vital. Not soldiers or councillors, but bakers, stonemasons, miners, whoever might have skill enough to call themselves a farmer – or at least reasonably capable at making living plants grow. Ered Luin had relied heavily on trade for most of its fresh produce, but there had been some who had succeeded in growing basic staples, like potatoes, that could be ground to make coarse meal, when necessary.

With any luck, he would be halfway to the Forodwaith, before anyone was forced to explain to his mother just how badly her youngest son had failed to keep his promise.

Oin’s wizened face and shock of grey hair were the first things Thorin saw when he opened his eyes. His throat was cracked from disuse, his limbs weak and trembling, but he could see and hear and feel and that was better than the alternative. Dwalin’s face loomed into view soon afterwards, left eye milky-pale with blindness.

“Good,” he grunted, “You’re awake.”

“The boys?” Thorin winced to hear the sound of his own voice, raw and feeble, but Dwalin understood him well enough.

“Alive. Dáin’s your Regent. Go back to sleep, you’re making me exhausted just looking at you.”

Thorin wanted to protest, surely he’d been sleeping for long enough, already. But Oin came at that moment to pour some tonic down his throat and Thorin very quickly felt himself succumb, once more.

“Were you not half-dead, brother, I would kill you myself, for letting it all come to this.”

Thorin raised his head to see Dís stood in the doorway, clothes worn and travel stained, beard unkempt and eyes red-rimmed as if she had been weeping. 

“I am so sorry, sister.” Thorin said. “But they say Fili shows more signs of strength with every passing day; he will soon wake.”

Dís shook her head, but whether in anger or in pain, Thorin couldn’t tell. His head felt light and the wound in his gut still ached when he sat in one position for too long.

“How fair our people?”

“Well enough.” Dís said. She came further into the room, but made no move to embrace him. “Our cousin rules as Regent in your stead; we will survive the winter.” 

Thorin nodded and then frowned, “Why then, would you wish to kill me?” He was sure that nothing so very grievous had happened in the time since the battle had ended. Those first few days of consciousness were hazy, fleeting dreams of faces and scraps of news. Dwalin had assured him thrice over that both his nephews were alive; Oin had told him that Kili had risen from his sickbed more than a month ago, and that Fili showed more signs of life and movement every day. If he had been told more besides, Thorin did not remember it. Dwalin had evaded all questions put to him, save to tell him that Bilbo had returned home to the Shire with Gandalf before winter had closed in. Dís simply shook her head, and Thorin could see her hands trembled as she raised them. 

“Do you not know? Have you so little care for your own kin? You tell me about Fili, Thorin, but what about my other son?” 

Thorin swallowed, “What has happened?”

“He is missing.”

Thorin felt his world tip sideways. “Explain.”

Thorin’s breath grew short in his chest as he was told the tale of his youngest nephew’s fate. From the moment he fell on the battlefield to his abdication as Regent to his guarding his brother’s bedside through day and night to his disappearance from the mountain and the sword that Thorin had once gifted to him, left behind.

Once she was finished, Dís collapsed heavily onto the bed by Thorin’s legs. It was as if the telling of the tale had drained her of her final strength. “You knew nothing of this?”

“Nothing.” Thorin said. “All I was told was that Kili had risen from his sickbed soon after the battle and that he had overseen the Reclamation of the Dead. Knowing he was alive, and well enough to work, I confess I asked more questions about Fili’s fate.”

Dís sighed and Thorin gathered her into his arms as she began to weep again.

“We will find him, _namad_.” He told her, “We will find him. I promise.”

“Have we any idea, where he might have gone?” Thorin had called a meeting of the Company, complete with Dís, and Dáin and his advisors.

“None.” Dáin answered. “I sent to Bard and to Thranduil, once his absence was discovered, but neither would own to having seen him. That elf-lass Kili was so fond of, though, she brought the message. And joined the search, after. I thought perhaps we might have a chance, but by the time we thought to look the snow had covered any tracks. We found no trace of him.”

Thorin cast a quick glance to Dís at the mention of the elf, but it seemed she had no energy left to rail against her son’s poor choices.

“What could have possessed him to leave?” Thorin asked. “Here he had a home, a family. What could have tempted him away.”

Dáin shrugged. “I think he just wanted to get away, Cousin. He had to have felt the gravity of what he’d done. Maybe he feared the punishment, when you woke again.”

Thorin shook his head. Kili would never have run for fear of retribution, even if he had been guilty. Even as a child he had owned to his mistakes – though not always in a manner as timely as Thorin would have liked – and accepted his punishments with grace. Kili knew his duty to well to simply leave at the thought of having to face the consequences of his actions. Not that there would have been any, by Thorin’s count.

“I would not have punished him, for doing what he thought was right. He stood against me when I was lost to dragon-sickness. He has always sought to do right by our people, and by me. I could not have held that against him.”

There were quiet mutterings from around the table, but Thorin ignored them. He could see that Dís felt as he did. Kili would not have left for such a childish complaint. Whatever had driven him from his home was serious.

“Where is the elf, now?” Dís asked, “Returned to her people?”

“No, my Lady.” Dwalin said. “She said she would continue to search, and send word if she found anything.”

“Then all there is left to do is wait.” Balin said. “We’ve our own patrols out looking –”

“And I’ll be joining them in the morning.” Dwalin interjected. “We’ll head south, following the River Running. There’s towns of Men that way, it’s possible he made for them.”

Thorin nodded his consent, and then waited for Dís to do the same. They, for now, were confined to the mountain. There was much to be done and a people to care for – even as their hearts curled tight for the unknown fate of a son and a nephew.

Dwalin could have cursed the birds of Spring; it had been many months since he had felt like singing. A raven had found him on the road, not long after he had left Erebor, to tell him Fili was finally awake. The prince had lost part of the sensation in his sword arm, but Oin thought the muscles could be trained to strength again, in time. The relief in Dís’ letter had been palpable. He only wished he’d had better news to share with her, in turn.

There’d been no sign of Kili in the South, nor any word of him having reached the Iron Hills. The elf Bofur had said he was so fond of had returned in the dark of the year, hollow-eyed and empty-handed. Thorin, with a heavy heart, had called the patrols home. Dís had confessed in her missive that she had raged for days, to the point of having to be restrained, but Dwalin knew, as well as she did, that Thorin could not spare able-bodied dwarves so easily. He had left them keeping watch for as long as he could, but eventually he had been forced to turn his resources homeward.

Dwalin alone, had stayed behind. He refused to believe Kili forever lost to the wild, and his affection for Thorin, and for Dís, kept his feet moving. He had even ventured into Thranduil’s kingdom, only to be met with disappointment. The Grey Mountains were now his final hope.

Dwalin trudged up the final brow of the ridge, looking down into the valley cradled by the north side of the mountain. Smoke rose from houses of the town – barely more than a village – nestled into the crags of the mountains. The light was already failing and Dwalin doubted whether he would reach the town by nightfall. Still, even if he arrived after dark, there might be folk in these mountains willing to give a hungry dwarf some food and a warm place to rest his head.

Dwalin was woken by the clattering of iron pots against a stone hearth, and the voice of a dwarrowdam scolding her youngest for dropping some thing or other. Rolling to his feet, Dwalin made a rough attempt at folding the blanket he’d been given before presenting it to the lady of the house.

There had been no rooms for rent last night; the town was too small to even merit the building of an inn. The clan-chief’s house was large enough to hold a gathering if necessary, but most times the dwarves of the Grey Mountains seemed content to visit each other in their houses. 

Dwalin had been fortunate that these dwarves were not easily frightened by fearsome looking strangers. That he was a dwarf, not a goblin, made him friend enough to them, and he had been given hot stew and a warm bed without too much question.

In payment, Dwalin had offered to run some errands, leaving the dwarrowdam to tend to her fretting children, one of whom had come running to the house cradling a small bird, with a broken wing.

Dwalin quickly made his escape. The main street was not hard to find – there being only a handful of lanes in the town entire. Dwalin followed the ringing of the hammers to the small forge, tucked away against the last of the houses. The smith was already hard at work. He was a gnarled, older fellow, as wrinkled as dried fruit but strong as an ox, still. His apprentice was a mere shadow in the back of the forge.

Dwalin waited until the man had laid his hammer aside, before calling for attention. “Galdis sent me to collect some hinges?”

The smith eyed him for a moment, before grunting his assent and turning to call for his apprentice. “Oi! Angvari! Bring those hinges will you, lad?”

Dwalin’s head snapped towards the apprentice. It was chance, it had to be. It wasn’t such an uncommon name, after all. But as the dwarf stepped towards the light, Dwalin felt his gut fill up with lead.

“ _You_.”

Kili jerked, almost spilling his burden as he heard Dwalin’s voice, but by the time he looked around he simply appeared to be resigned.

“Mister Dwalin.”

“I should drag you all the way back to the mountain by your hair.” Dwalin snarled. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? What’s been happening because of you?”

Kili merely shrugged. Dwalin snorted like an enraged bull. The smith was casting nervous looks between Dwalin and Kili, but as Kili showed no signs of reacting to Dwalin’s rage, he seemed reluctant to step between them.

Sighing, Kili handed his burden to the smith, and held his hands out in the sign of peace. “I don’t suppose you’re planning of giving me a choice about whether or not I go with you?”

Dwalin simply growled and wrapped his fist in the front of Kili’s tunic. “Fetch your things.”

Had it not been for Fili’s arm around her waist, Dís would have fallen to the ground when she heard the horn calls. The simple trumpets for the return of a warrior had barely attracted her attention; dwarves came and went enough these days that the sound had become a sort of background noise. But then there had been a breath of silence before the horns rang out again to welcome home a member of the royal line. Dís’ heart had leapt to hear it; her sense was telling her that it might yet be Dáin, or perhaps his son, after all these months what were the chances that it might be Kili? Hope made her weak and Fili had moved to steady her as the final echo of the horns died away.

Without conscious thought, Dís found herself moving. She did not run, but she made it to the gates with far more speed that she might otherwise have done. She could feel Fili on her heels and see Thorin rushing in from the other side, eyes wild in his face. He had been up on the battlements inspecting the defences, she knew. That he had come here, like this, she barely dared to hope –

The gates swung open and though the light they allowed in was nearly blinding, Dís could still see the silhouette of Dwalin walking through the doors. And beside him, beside him, there he was.

Dís gave a cry and rushed to take Kili in her arms. The guardsmen standing by respectfully averted their eyes, as Dís openly wept to see her son. She clung to him, hands clasped against his cheeks, eyes searching his face. He was older, leaner; this was not a boy setting out on an adventure, but a warrior, full grown. 

He did not return her embrace. Kili’s eyes were fixed over her shoulder to where Thorin stood, hand wrapped around Fili’s bicep. 

Gently but firmly, Kili extracted himself from his mother’s arms and went to one knee, bowing his head before Thorin.

“My king.”

He wouldn’t look at her. She had travelled across half of Middle Earth to reach him, only to find him gone, and now her youngest child would not deign to meet her gaze. She felt Fili wrap his arms around her shoulders, could sense him silently willing his brother to look their way. But having said his piece, Kili’s eyes were fixed firmly on the stone of the entryway. Dís abruptly realised that this was no place to have any sort of conversation.

“The Royal Wing.” She said, firmly, catching Thorin’s gaze. “Let us retire there, I am sure my son and Master Dwalin are tired after their long journey.”

Dwalin bowed before stalking forward to bring Kili to his feet. He did so more roughly than might otherwise have been warranted, but he was not so harsh that Dís felt herself able to object. Clearly something was not right here. Dwalin had not stopped scowling since he stepped into the mountain and Kili was nothing like the lively youth she remembered sending off from Ered Luin.

The door to the Dís’ receiving rooms had barely swung shut before Fili smashed his fist into his brother’s face, with all his strength. Kili dropped like a stone, head snapping back on his neck as his legs gave way. Fili followed him down, hands clenched in his brother’s coat, so that they landed in a tangled heap; Kili’s head struck the floor with a sick _thunk_.

“You left. You _left_. I needed you and you weren’t there.” Dwalin hauled a shouting Fili up and away, bracing himself between the two brothers as Fili continued to hurl curses. Kili simply sat on the floor, one palm pressed to his jaw and glared at them.

The door opened and closed with a soft _snick_ and Balin took up position closely behind Thorin. 

Dís found herself overwrought. There was so much she wanted to say; still more she wanted to scream and cry. She wanted to shake Kili, to embrace him, to never let him out of her sight again. She wanted to crack her hand against his cheek and demand to know _why?_. 

“Fili, that is enough.” Thorin said at last. “I would hear what your brother has to say.” 

Kili picked himself up off the ground, tongue testing the inside of his cheek. He winced when he found the spot where his teeth had broken the skin.

“I would know where it was you were hiding, through the winter, Kili.” Thorin said, “I would know why you forsook your people and your family. Did your duty mean nothing to you? Did we mean nothing to you?”

“I did my duty –”

“ _Your duty_?” Dwalin roared. “You’ve a nerve to be talking of your duty, boy.” He turned to Thorin. “I found him skulking in the Grey Mountains; working as a blacksmith’s apprentice and calling himself ‘Angvari’. Your duty.” He spat on the ground at Kili’s feet. “For shame.”

Kili looked as if he would have leapt for Dwalin then had Dís not put herself firmly in the way. “You owe me an explanation.” She said calmly. “Of all here, I deserve a complete and honest answer from you Kili. Why did you leave?”

Kili gaped at her for a moment, uncomprehending, before snapping his teeth together with a click. “Because I was told to.” He said eventually. “Don’t you deny it.” He added, when Balin opened his mouth to protest. “You came, and you dragged me away from Fili and you said it had to end. You told me I’d shamed Thorin and that I had to leave. That’s what you said.”

Balin stood, flabbergasted for a moment, as all eyes turned toward him. “No laddie, I never said – that was not what I meant.” Kili glared, but said nothing. “Lad, I only meant you had to think of your duty. You had responsibilities, it wasn’t right for you to spend every day and night at your brother’s side. Not sleeping, not eating; you were acting like you expected Dáin to lay a knife against their throats. I only meant to remind you of your duty.”

“ _That was my duty_.” Kili’s voice was hoarse with rage. “That has only ever been my duty. It was my job to make sure the line of Durin survived. It was my _duty_ to stand between my brother and harm’s way. That is the purpose of my _life_. And I failed. Fili nearly died, Uncle nearly died – Dáin declared me unfit to be the Regent. I know I’ve never been good enough, I know. But I tried. I tried and I kept on trying and then you sent me away. You didn’t trust that I could do my duty, you wanted me gone. You thought _Dwalin_ was a more worthy guard than me. I was born to give my life for them, if necessary, and _you took that from me_.”

The room was silent as Kili finished. The only sound were his harsh pants for breath and the soft whimper that came from Fili’s throat. 

“Who told you this was your purpose?” Thorin’s voice was quiet. “Who told you to live your life as nothing more than a sacrifice?”

Kili seemed genuinely puzzled by the question. “Balin.” He said, simply. “When we were little Balin told us: Fili’s the heir, I’m the spare – just like you and Uncle Frerin. He died protecting you, one day I would do the same for Fili.”

Dís turned to Balin, ready to strike him. But the old dwarf was shaking his head, violently. “I never said that,” he protested. “On Mahal’s Beard I swear it. I never told him such a thing.”

“That was the point of the story. Of Azanulbizar.” Kili said. “That’s why you told us, so we would each of us know our duty. Fili’s duty will be to one day lead our people, and mine must be to make sure he’s alive to do it.”

“No.” Balin said at last. “That was never the point of the story.”

Dís knew that she was crying. She was not the only one; tears ran wetly down Dwalin’s cheeks.

“Come with me, Kili.” Thorin said. “There is much we must discuss.”

Dís wanted to protest. She had to tell Kili he was wrong, she had to tell him that she loved him – that she could never love one son so much that she would wish the other dead to protect him. But Thorin shook his head and Dís chose to be the bravest she had ever been: she trusted him.

Thorin took Kili by the shoulders and guided him from the room. Fili went to his mother’s embrace and held her close.

“We failed him.” Dwalin said, “To have let him live through all these years, thinking that. How could we have missed it?”

“It’s my fault,” Fili said, “I should have noticed. We’ve never been apart, if anyone’s to blame it’s me.”

Dís hushed him and pressed her lips to his forehead in a kiss. “There’s no sense in apportioning blame, _ghivashel_.” She said. “We have all faced moments where we might be accused of failing to see the path your brother’s mind had taken. But we must also remember that Kili has never been a fool. If he did not want us to know how he suffered and criticised himself, he would have been clever enough to keep it from us.”

It was clear that Fili did not find this explanation wholly satisfactory, but he let his mother guide him to the low bench that had been placed beneath a carving of Durin Reborn.

“We will do better from hereon in.” Dís said softly, tucking Fili’s hair behind his ear. “He is alive, and whole, and with us again. We must thank Mahal for that.”

With a bow, Balin withdrew, taking his brother with him. Dwalin was still cursing himself for a blind-man and a fool. Balin led the way to one of the smaller dining chambers and arranged for a message to be sent to members of the Company. There was much they would need to discuss that night.

Thorin led Kili up a familiar path. The tunnel that led up to the secret door was lit with torches and swept clean of dirt or dust. If Thorin knew that this was the way Kili had left the mountain, he gave no sign of it.

The late afternoon sun was bleeding across the sky and the wind was twisting through the trees. Roäc and his brood were sweeping through the clouds as Thorin rested his weight against the side of the mountain. Kili walked forward until he could look out over the land and rivers below. 

Thorin had said nothing as he led Kili up and out of the mountain. Now, he seemed content to wait for Kili to collect himself.

When Kili turned back toward him, Thorin made sure to hold his nephew’s gaze. “I would have your promise,” he said, “that you would value your own life more highly, from now on.” Kili frowned, ready to protest. Thorin sighed. “How would the story be different, in your eyes, if I Azog had sent me to my tomb, that day, to lie beside my brother?”

“Our people would be scattered,” Kili started, “we would never have reclaimed the Lonely Mountain. We would –”

Thorin held up his hand for peace. “That is not what I meant. How would our people remember Frerin, if I had died as well?”

“His death would be remembered as a tragedy.”

“Why?”

“Because he failed.”

“Precisely.” 

Kili shook his head, “I don’t understand.”

Thorin strode forward until he could grip Kili’s face beneath the chin and force the boy to look at him. “Your death does not guarantee your brother’s safety.” Thorin said, “Just as Frerin’s did not guarantee mine. It was luck at Moria, and nothing more, that kept me breathing. I do not remember my brother as a hero; I do not think of him as the champion who laid down his life that I may live. I remember him as the boy who never had a chance to grow. I remember him as my _brother_ \- and nothing more.”

Kili was staring at him, eyes wide and confused and Thorin sighed. He pulled Kili into an embrace, tucking his chin over the crown of Kili’s head, just as he had decades past, in Ered Luin. Kili was too tall now for it to be comfortable, but Thorin was unwilling to let go. “I have always had a father’s love for you. I hope you know that.” 

He could feel Kili nod against his chest. “I never doubted it.”

“Then what did you doubt?”

Kili drew a shuddering breath, and Thorin could feel every tremble. “You had Fili as your heir; you never seemed to have any use for me.”

Thorin shut his eyes against that revelation. “That’s not true.”

“It’s how it seemed.” Kili told him, wriggling out of his arms. “You used to speak of Fili’s duties as your heir, and I got lumped in with him, as if I was just an extension of him – one that was always going to be there. What were you going to do with _me_ , once we retook the mountain?” He paced, hands gesturing wildly. It seemed, now that the floodgates were opened, that Kili could not bring himself to stop. “You told me yourself: I am Unworthy.”

With a start, Thorin realised he had never apologised for his words in Rivendell. Those days seemed so distant now. At first he had thought simply to give his nephew time to regain his temper, so that Thorin’s apology might be more easily received. Then, he had simply forgotten. It was clear Kili had not.

“I am sorry.” Thorin said. “I’m sure those words are meaningless, after so long. But I meant to say them at the time and am ashamed not to have told you since. You are a Son of Durin’s Line: a Prince Under the Mountain. I would never have you think of yourself as anything but the worthiest of dwarves.”

Kili stared at Thorin, for a long moment, before his strength seemed to fail him. He sank to his knees, weeping.

He was still so young, in so many ways, Thorin realised, and he had been forced to carry a heavy burden for far too long. Thorin knelt beside his nephew and waited until Kili had composed himself. Had it been any other day, Thorin might have pretended not to see the pink blush of shame on Kili’s cheeks or the way he avoided Thorin’s gaze, thinking to leave the lad his dignity. He would not that mistake a second time.

“I have done you wrong.” Thorin said, speaking slow and clearly. “You need feel no shame in front of me. You may not be my heir, in name, but I value you as highly as I value Fili. Always was it my intention that you would hold the position of greatest trust, after my passing. Fili’s duty is, and must always be, to our people in this mountain. But he must have eyes that look out to the wider world too. There must be one whom he can trust above all others, one who will tell him when he might do wrong. There must be one who will always speak the truth, no matter what. This was the role Gror once filled for my grandfather, the one Frerin was once meant to fill for me. You will be your brother’s Viceroy, Kili, and all in Erebor will know your worth.”

Fili sighed as he put his seal to the final document and pushed the whole lot away with a sigh. Kili was sat on the other side of the desk, still in the sweat-soaked cloth armour he wore to the practice grounds. He was reading over one of the latest dispatches from the Dale, thumb idly spinning his ring of Office round and round his middle finger.

Authority suited Kili well. In the years since they had reclaimed the mountain, Kili had come into his own. He sat with Fili on Thorin’s council, and more and more the minor lords were looking to Kili for clues as to which way the wind blew. He had taken to training with the King’s Guard under Dwalin and (though he was still playing catch-up for all those lessons he had skipped with Balin as a boy) was shaping up to be a fine ambassador, indeed. That he was still disposed to think kindly of elf-maids had not hurt their diplomatic relations with Thranduil’s realm – though it irritated the king, himself, no end.

At last Kili sighed, and let the dispatch fall onto the table. “I trust Bain when he says his father’s illness is no cause for concern, but if it lasts much longer the Weaver’s Guild will be up in arms. They were expecting the new shipments of wool weeks ago. Already the Merchants are threatening to lower their buying price for the delay. The Guild Master was also hoping to present the Throne with a tapestry commemorating the first births in the Mountain, at the Anniversary Feast. She’ll cut her beard for shame if it’s not finished in time.”

“I’m still not clear on why there _is_ a delay.” Fili said.

“Politics. Bard’s not well enough to force the issue so Dale’s Guilds are indulging in a little power play. Bain just needs a nudge in the right direction – he’ll get a handle on them soon enough.”

Fili sighed. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re about to volunteer to be that nudge?”

“Well, the mountain’s getting boring.” Kili smiled. “I need to go out and prove my worth, sometime.”

Fili tensed and then forced himself to relax again. For the most part he trusted that his brother was joking, these days, when he made light of his value or his worth. But there were times when Fili wondered how much doubt was still lurking beneath the surface.

“Fine.” He said, waving a hand to bring Kili to his feet. “I’ll let Uncle know that you’re going. But you get to tell Mother that you’ll be gone for the next week. I’m not fighting that battle for you again.”

Kili grinned, dismissing Fili’s warnings with a quick flick of the wrist. “She’ll be fine. I’ll promise to take Dwalin with me, that way she can be sure I’ll find my way back.”

“I’ll tell Dwalin to pack a bag then, shall I?” Fili said.

“Much appreciated.” Kili answered, heading towards the door. “And if you could tell kitchens to pack us something to eat, I’d be grateful.”

Fili huffed. “And here I was thinking you worked for me.”

Kili laughed, pulling the door open with slightly more force than necessary. “Only as much as you work for me, brother.”

The door swung shut behind him, the sound echoing in the quiet of the stone. With a sigh Fili turned back to his mess of papers. Things might not yet be quite right between them, but with time, perhaps, they would be.


End file.
